


Merry Wind, Magical Wind

by 15Acesplz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Arguing, Carnival, Consent, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Oblivious, Enjolras is a little repressed, Eponine is done with everyone's shit, Feuilly is a dear, First Time, Grantaire gets soooo jealous, Jealousy, Miscommunication, Multi, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, bisexual wasn't a thing so Grantaire just considers himself gayish, i love consent so much, it's 1905, it's a pony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6892600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/15Acesplz/pseuds/15Acesplz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire liked new towns. He’d always been a roamer – a tramp, someone less considerate might say – and he liked few things as much as a town he’d never seen full of people he’d never met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire liked new towns. He’d always been a roamer – a tramp, someone less considerate might say – and he liked few things as much as a town he’d never seen full of people he’d never met. A new town was a new chance, a clean slate before everything inevitably went to hell.

No point in thinking about that now, though; not right now, while Feuilly was piecing together the carousel and Éponine was stirring up a vat of lemonade and Jehan was weaving ribbons into Henri’s mane and Gavroche was off on the busiest streets, hollering to anyone who’d listen that there was a carnival at eight with a show at eleven. Right now, when only a handful of townies realized a carney had even arrived, Hadley, Massachusetts was still a new town.

Grantaire relished the idea, leaning against the side of Henri’s wagon with a sigh. He let his eyes slide shut, lifted his flask to his lips, and heard a giggle followed by hurried shushing.

He cracked an eye open, to see a pack of kids peering at him over the ramshackle fence. “Carney don’t start ‘til eight,” he said. One of the kids whispered something, and the youngest one giggled a second time. “Go on, little lot lice,” he tried again, irritated, “scram!”

After another series of whispers a boy swung his leg over the fence, and Grantaire decided enough was enough. He advanced a step, pulling his meanest face, his hands held above his head threateningly. “ _Aarrrghhh!_ ”

He must have looked a sight, with his wild hair and pallid face and overgrown stubble, his crooked teeth bared in a snarl, because sure enough the kids backed up and ran, and the boy fell off the fence, scrambling to catch up with them with a fearful cry of, “Wait for me!”

Grantaire resumed his post and smirked, taking a swig from his flask, before he gathered himself and returned to preparations.

\- - - - -

“Win a prize! Win a prize! Knock over the bottles to win a prize!” Grantaire yelled, trying to catch the attention of passersby. “Only ten cents to play, anyone could win! Play for a dime and win a prize!” Suddenly he smiled. “How ‘bout you, sir?” he said encouragingly. “Win a prize for your gal?”

The man standing in front of him was young with trusting eyes and a suit so nice Grantaire wouldn’t be allowed to lay a finger on it in a store, let alone buy it. The best possible mark, especially with the fashionable girl on his arm whispering, “Go on, Marius; it’s only a dime.”

The man – or boy, he wasn’t really more than a boy – placed a dime on the counter, and then another. And another, until he’d paid Grantaire five dimes and thrown five rubber balls and not a single tower of old milk bottles had been bested. Grantaire swept the fifty cents off the counter into a box of coins and quickly dipped his hand into a box filled with crushed chalk right next to it. “Better luck next time, pal,” he said cheerfully, patting the bewildered boy on the back. He watched the couple leave, and could still see the white streak of chalk on the expensive suit ten feet away. He chuckled. Bahorel should have fun with that one.

He leaned his elbows on the counter and scanned the midway, not bothering to shout for a mark after getting an entire half dollar. The carousel was running, Gavroche was selling candy apples to some teenagers, there was a line at the pony ride… Make that a disturbingly long line at the pony ride. Grantaire looked around, didn’t spot anyone who seemed interested in the milk bottle toss, and turned over his sign so that it read ‘ _Please wait a moment_ ’ instead of ‘ _10¢ to win_ ’.

At first he could only make out the disgruntled murmurs of the crowd as he approached the pony ride tent, but he pushed past them, and a singular voice rang out.

“A few paltry flowers do little to disguise malnourishment and neglect, sir –”

“ _What!?_ ” The second speaker Grantaire recognized as Jehan, and he made one final push to the edge of the throng.

“What’s going on here?” he asked sharply, looking around. No squirming kid was perched on Henri’s back, as one should be around this time in the evening. Instead a young man stood opposite Jehan and the pony, his arms crossed.

It was Jehan who answered, clinging protectively to Henri’s lead. “This _gentleman_ thinks we’re neglecting my Henri!” His face was bright pink and he looked as though he could cry. Never mind that it was true that Henri was thin for his sturdy breed, that his mane was bedraggled and his eyes tired, that after an hour in the hot tent the ribbons and wildflowers Jehan had adorned him with were drooping – Jehan took better care of Henri than he did himself. It still wasn’t enough. But nothing like this had ever happened. No one had ever had the gall to accuse him of not doing everything he could for the poor old pony.

Grantaire turned his attention to the offender. He was obviously well-to-do, a handsome young gentleman, with a new brown suit and a deep red ascot, his blond hair pulled back neatly, and probably treated with pomade. That wasn’t surprising; rich folks attended the carnival more than anyone else (and who else would lack the sense to realize just how poor carneys were?). What intrigued Grantaire was his face. He seemed to be made of cold, sharp angles, with the exception of his eyes. His blue eyes were bright as fire. Grantaire couldn’t look away, and the man stared right back. Then Grantaire’s gaze slid to the haughty set of his mouth. A spark lit in his chest and all he felt was fury.

Within seconds he had his hands fisted around the man’s starched collar, his face close enough that their noses almost touched. “Listen, sweet cheeks,” he growled, too low for anyone else to hear, “my pal Prouvaire loves that pony more than life. I wouldn’t expect a nice rich boy like you to understand, but we don’t got much and we do the best we can. Now, if you aren’t here to have some goddamn fun, you can just scoot your pretty ass right outta here.”

He let go of the man’s collar – which was now distinctly rumpled – and stepped back, staring him down until he gave a huff and marched out of the tent.

Jehan still looked shaken, looked like he was probably tearing himself up with guilt that he couldn’t take better care of his Henri, and the mules as well. He adored the animals, and while it was true that decorating them with braids and baubles didn’t do much to help their hunger or exhaustion, Grantaire wasn’t about to let him dwell on the words of a foolish man who took him for a monster when he was really anything but. Grantaire knelt on the ground in front of Henri, stroking his nose. “Henri’s a good boy,” he murmured to the pony, who nickered in response. “Henri’s a happy boy, isn’t he? Henri’s part of the family,” he said firmly. He lifted his eyes to Jehan, who was still holding the lead so tight his knuckles were white. “And no one messes with my family.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excuse me –”
> 
> Grantaire turned away from Jehan and Henri, already prepared with his standard, “Carney don’t start ‘til –” He stopped, stared, and slowly smirked. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mister Do-Gooder,” he drawled sarcastically. The man opened his mouth to reply and Grantaire cut him off. “Tell me, are you just looking for a fight? Because I sure as hell can give you one.”

The carnival had just barely ended and Grantaire had just barely settled down on his cot with the end of a bottle of whiskey for first count when Gavroche popped his head in the open door. “Aire? I got a couple.”

Grantaire took a drink and set aside the money boxes with a sigh. “Lemme see ‘em.”

Gavroche turned away, making some encouraging whispers, and ushered in two little boys, their clothes shabby but neat, the younger one with unshed tears shining in his eyes. They clung to Gavroche’s shirtsleeves, eyeing Grantaire warily. Grantaire raised his eyebrows. The bigger boy couldn’t be older than eight. “Little ‘uns, huh?”

Gavroche shrugged. “They’ll prove useful. Me and Ponine did, didn’t we?”

That was true – Gavroche had only been eight himself when he and his older sister ran away, and even then he’d made a fantastic talker and hawker. Grantaire hummed noncommittally. “What’re your names?” he asked the boys.

The older boy spoke for them, his voice soft and hesitant. “I’m Dominic. He’s Francois.”

“Dominic and Francois,” Grantaire repeated, nodding slowly. “Okay.” He drained his jug. “Give ‘em your cot and share with Éponine. We’ll see what they’re good for tomorrow.”

\- - - - -

“Excuse me –”

Grantaire turned away from Jehan and Henri, already prepared with his standard, “Carney don’t start ‘til –” He stopped, stared, and slowly smirked. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mister Do-Gooder,” he drawled sarcastically. The man opened his mouth to reply and Grantaire cut him off. “Tell me, are you just looking for a fight? Because I sure as hell can give you one.”

“Please listen, I –” He jumped in quickly, but couldn’t manage to get another word in.

“Carney don’t start ‘til eight, pal. If you got any brains in that pretty blond head you won’t be there.”

“I simply wanted to apologize!” he burst out, frustrated.

Grantaire stared him down, and there it was again, that flicker of intrigue. He tore his eyes away and swigged from his flask. “You got a minute.”

“I was… wrong to jump to conclusions,” he said. “I was merely concerned for your pony.”

Grantaire scoffed disbelievingly, but Jehan, who’d been unusually quiet throughout the exchange, suddenly lit up. “His name is Henri,” he started eagerly, “and I do feed him, but we have so little, so sometimes I skip a meal or two, even though it doesn’t save much, and I keep him washed and brushed –”

The man actually looked interested, his gaze intent as Jehan rattled on about his penchant for animals. Grantaire was surprised. He’d taken the man for a pontifical, pompous know-it-all who didn’t really care about animals and had just wanted to show off his superiority. But he’d taken the time to come down to the lot and apologize, and he was really listening to Jehan. That was something not everyone did – many people thought him silly, and too sensitive for a young man. Maybe Grantaire had underestimated this rich boy.

He was jerked out of his musings when Jehan asked, “Would you like to meet everyone?”

“What?” Grantaire said without thinking.

“I…” The man hesitated, glancing at Grantaire. It seemed he realized he would need Grantaire’s permission to accept.

_Oh, what the hell,_ Grantaire thought. He stuck out his hand. “Grantaire. I own this joint.”

\- - - - -

“Éponine,” Grantaire called, approaching the kitchen, “we got a visitor.”

Éponine’s dark, quick eyes scanned the stranger over suspiciously. “Wheazy?” she asked Grantaire.

He shrugged. “No particular reason.”

“He likes ponies!” Jehan piped in.

“What did she say?” the man muttered.

Grantaire waved off his question. “This is Éponine, our fire eater. Ponine, this is…” he trailed off.

“Enjolras,” the man supplied.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmured, turning to look at him. Once again he found himself captivated, caught in those fire eyes.

He shook himself as Éponine said, “Well, okay. Hey, if you see my brother tell him I need him.”

“Sure.” He gestured for the others to follow him away from the kitchen and through the rest of the midway, and soon enough Enjolras had been introduced to Bahorel (“Our knife thrower. Also my go-to guy if you _had_ been looking for a fight”), Bossuet (“Charming clown and one hell of a baritone”), the mules, courtesy of Jehan (“This is Dante, Keats, and Whitman!”), and Feuilly (“The machine man. Dunno what I’d do without him”), until they were approaching Gavroche and the kids across the lot.

“Gavroche!” Grantaire shouted as they drew closer. “Get your skinny self and those punks down to the kitchen.”

“They’re doing real good, Aire,” Gavroche said cheerily, the boys two obedient lambs tailing behind him. “I taught ‘em how to rig the milk bottles –”

“BC, Vroche, Jesus,” Grantaire hissed, casting a nervous glance at Enjolras. “Go help Éponine, would you?”

As soon as the three were gone Enjolras turned to Grantaire accusingly. “You rig your games?”

Grantaire just shrugged, pulling out his flask and taking a drink.

“That’s not fair.”

He stared Enjolras dead in the eye. “Life ain’t fair, blondie.”

Jehan dissipated the tension by asking Enjolras, “Are you coming back to the carney tonight? I don’t think you stayed for our show.”

Again Enjolras looked to Grantaire, silently asking for his approval.

“We put on a damn good show,” Grantaire offered.

“Yes,” Enjolras replied, a twitch of a smile on his face. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

\- - - - -

The performers had bowed and the audience had cheered. They’d thrown coins, too, and now, when the performance tent was emptying, Grantaire was left to gather those coins. Just as the last few townies filed out, Grantaire sensed someone approaching him and looked up to see Enjolras.

“That was an excellent performance,” he said. “I congratulate you.”

Grantaire shrugged, dropping a handful of coins into his pocket and pulling out his flask. “It’s what we do.”

Enjolras watched him knock back the flask, then commented, “You drink a lot, don’t you?”

“You pry a lot, don’t you?” Grantaire shot back, scowling.

He cringed. “I’m sorry. I –”

He was interrupted by Gavroche bolting in, out of breath. “Aire, the coppers are here!”

“Shit!” Grantaire swore. “Get the little tykes and hide in the possum belly,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of it.” Once Gavroche had run off he grabbed Enjolras by the shoulders. “Did you squeal?” he demanded.

“What?” Enjolras asked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden chaos.

“You tell those coppers we rig our games?”

He was so bewildered and confused that Grantaire had to believe him when he stammered out, “N-no, I didn’t tell anyone!”

Grantaire released his shoulders and stepped away, running his hands through his hair. “You should get outta here.”

“I’m sorry about –”

“You can’t do anything, just go!” he yelled behind him, running out of the tent.

Out on the midway the policemen Gavroche had reported were hassling the carneys, but didn’t seem to be ransacking the games. Grantaire let out a breath. They didn’t know.

“Don’t sass me, girl!” The police captain grabbed Èponine’s arm.

“Let her go!”

The captain beat back the approaching Bahorel with his baton, and Grantaire saw Bahorel pull his arm back. “Bahorel, no!” he shouted, running forward, but just as he said it Bahorel threw the punch.

“You’re in trouble, boy!” the captain roared, holding his bruised jaw. Grantaire felt an officer constrain his arms from behind as the same thing happened to the others. “Cuff them all!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s start with vocab!  
> First count – The first time the money earned in that night is counted. It’s a high honor to be trusted to do it and is considered the most accurate count  
> Talker – Commonly given the misnomer “barker”. Someone who yells and yells about the carnival to get people interested. There are inside talkers and outside talkers sometimes. Gavroche pretty much fills both roles  
> Hawker – Gavroche is also a hawker! That means he goes around the carnival selling wares and, again, hollering about it. He sells taffy apples and popcorn  
> Do-gooder – One of the rich supremists who vendetta relentlessly against carnivals for being immoral and unjust  
> Punk – One of the original usages of this word was in carnivals. It’s a designation for young, usually inexperienced boys  
> BC – Stands for “be cool”. A signal to stop whatever is being done or said because someone else shouldn’t see or hear it  
> Possum belly – A storage box built into the underside of a work wagon to carry supplies and sometimes hide people, like runaway children or girlfriends (the runaway girlfriend is called “queen of the possum belly”)  
> Okay. Now here we go with ciazarn. When Èponine said “Wheazy?” she was really saying “Why?” Ciazarn is a secret cant spoken by carnies, kind of like pig Latin. The name comes from the word for carney, which would be “ciazarney”, pronounced KEY-uh-ZARN-ey. “Wheazy” would be “WEE-uh-zie” with a long “i”. It’s just putting an “EEuhz” sound in the middle of every word, and when spoken quickly and riddled with slang, it’s practically incomprehensible to townies. You can read it pretty easily if you just try to mentally ignore the “eaz”, but every time it’s used I’ll put a translation in the notes all the same.   
> I think that’s all I have to say. So, here again next week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I told you to go,” Grantaire said, breaking the silence.
> 
> “Well,” Enjolras sighed, “I didn’t listen.”

“I told you to go,” Grantaire said, breaking the silence.

“Well,” Enjolras sighed, “I didn’t listen.”

The seven of them were lined up on the gritty jail cell benches, Èponine bandaging Bahorel’s bleeding forehead with a strip of cloth from her apron. Grantaire hadn’t noticed Enjolras behind him, also in handcuffs, until they were all shoved into a couple of police wagons. He felt horrible that a gentleman like Enjolras had gotten roped into heat.

His gaze flicked to Èponine tending to Bahorel. Her hands shook tying the bandage off. He glanced briefly at the guard monitoring the cell. “Geazav’s feazine, Ponine.”

She sighed, clenching her trembling hands. “Sure?”

“Sure,” he confirmed. “Heaze teazook theaze keazidsta heazide.”

“Heazope heaze deazon’t weazorry,” she mumbled.

“Heaze deazon’t eazever weazorry. Heaze’s feazine.” Grantaire looked over at Enjolras again. He looked so out of place, with Bossuet on one side and Jehan on the other, his stylish suit surrounded by faded, outdated, patched clothing; his clean, luminous self surrounded by grime. “I’m real sorry about all this,” he said to everyone.

“I should be apologizing,” Bahorel protested. “I shouldn’t’ve hit him.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Don’t matter now.”

They fell silent again, and within an hour an officer came to the cell. “Bail has been paid for Mister Enjolras.”

Enjolras stood up with a sigh. “Thank god.”

Grantaire raised his hand in farewell as the guard unlocked the door. “See ya, blondie.”

He nodded in response, and the cell was quiet, until a minute later a shout rang out. “ _Enough!_ ” They all shared a glance, listening curiously. The speaker was a man, and he sounded livid. “Enough of this, the socialism and the anarchism and the labor protests! How many times do I have to retrieve you here, like my son is a common vagabond? A disgrace, that’s what you are! Well, I’ve had enough! I want you out of my house!”

“Father –” That was Enjolras, and he kept talking, though after that Grantaire couldn’t make out his words. A door slammed and his distinctive voice was gone.  
“Hope he’s alright…” Grantaire muttered.

Éponine scoffed. “Aw, who cares? Heaze reazatted eazus eazout.”

Grantaire bristled, suddenly feeling a strong sense of loyalty to an almost-stranger. “Neazo, heaze deazidn’t, Ponine, eazi eazasked.”

“Eazand yeazou beaz’lieve heazim?”

He huffed. “Yeazeah, eazi deazo.”

Éponine took his gruffness as a sign to drop the subject, and didn’t say anything else.

Hours passed, and the inky night had given way to a weak dawn by the time the captain came for them.

“All right,” he said authoritatively, gesturing to the guard for the key. “You lot can clear out.”

Before they could leave the station, the captain stopped Grantaire, holding out an official-looking paper.

“What the hell is this?”

“Your fine,” the captain replied smoothly.

Grantaire’s eyes widened as he scanned the paper. “Fifty dollars? Christ!”

The captain smiled, cold and triumphant. “You have a day to return with payment or risk permanent arrest.”

Hadley, Massachusetts wasn’t a new town anymore.

\- - - - -

“Weaze’re geazonna heazafta skeazip teazown,” Grantaire said, frustrated. “Weaze deazon’t geazot feazifty deazamn deazollars.” The others just nodded mutely as they trudged along the road, somber after the long night.

There weren’t many townies out and about so early in the morning – Grantaire only saw a weary milkman making his rounds, an alley cat skulking by a building, a woman stringing gray laundry out her window, and –

He slowed to a stop. Just a few paces away, a disheveled and distressed Enjolras sat on a traveling trunk at the side of the road, his head in his hands. “Hey, blondie,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras lifted his head, revealing bloodshot eyes. He didn’t respond.

“You been sat here all night?”

He laughed hollowly. “It seems I have.”

Grantaire paused, mulling a notion over. “Couldn’t help but overhearing that you got no place to go,” he started.

“Aire, what are you doing,” Éponine hissed.

Grantaire ignored her. “Maybe you’d like to come with us,” he offered, “seeing as it’s our fault you’re out here.”

“I…” Enjolras hesitated.

“Think on it. But think fast. We split at sunrise.”

\- - - - -

They’d only been at the lot packing up for a quarter hour when Enjolras arrived, lugging his trunk behind him. He walked at a brisk pace and looked to have gathered himself. “I have decided,” he said after he caught his breath, “to accept your offer.”

“Welcome aboard,” Grantaire said. “Give me your keister and help us with this tent.”

\- - - - -

Grantaire was exhausted. The entire day had been dedicated to getting as far away from Hadley as possible, and now Feuilly was on the first night shift to steer them towards Boston. Boston had always been kind to them, and even though it was riddled with carneys in the summer, the city was big enough that competition wasn’t a problem. Besides, it had an excellent market, and they needed a multitude of things, including a cot for Enjolras.

Speaking of which. Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever be able to sleep with Enjolras audibly shivering on the floor. He shouldn’t have expected a gazoonie who’d never wanted for anything in his life to be tough enough for the carney one day in. Finally, when he heard Enjolras’s teeth start to chatter, he sighed. “You cold, blondie?”

“No.” He paused. “Yes. But don’t worry about it.”

And if that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing Grantaire had ever heard. Maybe Enjolras didn’t realize that Grantaire was more mother hen than owner, looking after everyone before himself. He sighed again, swung his legs off his cot, and stood. “Get up.”

“What? No,” Enjolras protested when he realized what he meant. “I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” Enjolras reluctantly exchanged places with him, leaving his borrowed blanket on the floor, presumably for Grantaire. Grantaire picked it up and draped it over Enjolras. “Don’t say a word, blondie,” he warned. “Take the damn blanket.”

Once Grantaire had settled himself on the floor, he heard Enjolras’s voice, quiet and tentative. “Thank you. For this, and… well, everything.”

“No problem,” Grantaire murmured. He was on the verge of adding, ‘I’m glad you came with us’ when he decided it would be too sentimental. “Now shut up and go to sleep,” he said gruffly.

Everything was going to be okay, Grantaire figured as he drifted off. Hadley’d been a difficult, complicated town, but it was miles behind them, and Boston was just ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vocab:  
> Heat – Any kind of dispute between carneys and townies  
> Keister – A collapsible table, or any kind of luggage  
> Gazoonie – An itinerant day-laborer working temporarily, or someone who’s so inexperienced that they probably won’t last long in the carnival. Also the most ridiculous word I have ever used  
> Ciazarn Translations:  
> 1 – “Gav’s fine”  
> “He took the kids to hide”  
> “Hope he don’t worry”  
> “He don’t ever worry. He’s fine”  
> 2 – “He ratted us out”  
> “No, he didn’t, Ponine, I asked”  
> “And you believe him?”  
> “Yeah, I do”  
> 3 – “We’re gonna have to skip town. We don’t got fifty damn dollars”  
> Well, that’s really all I have to say. Oh, and the police captain’s Javert.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Keep up, punks!” Gavroche cried enthusiastically, dragging Dominic and Francois behind him through the market.
> 
> “Keep up, yourself, punk,” Grantaire said with an amused smile as he overtook Gavroche, who’d stopped to gape at a cart of shiny tin soldiers.

“Keep up, punks!” Gavroche cried enthusiastically, dragging Dominic and Francois behind him through the market.

“Keep up, yourself, punk,” Grantaire said with an amused smile as he overtook Gavroche, who’d stopped to gape at a cart of shiny tin soldiers.

“Eazand keazeep yeazour peazawsta yeazourself,” Éponine added sharply. Gavroche shot her a guilty look and in a flash returned the soldier hidden in his sleeve to the display.

“Okay, remember the list,” Grantaire told the group. He pointed at each of them for assignments. “Bahorel, cigarettes. Bossuet, hamburger. Feuilly, the mule grub; Ponine, apron. Can’t guarantee we got enough for one, but keep an eye out anyway. Prouvaire, make sure these punks stay outta trouble. Blondie, you’re with me. We’re getting you a cot.”

“I wish you’d not call me that horrid nickname,” Enjolras said with a heavy sigh once the group had split up.

Grantaire shrugged, scanning the carts and stands. “I call it like I see it, blondie. I’ll call you Angel-ras if you like that better,” he added with a smirk.

“ _Angel_ -ras?” Enjolras repeated incredulously.

“Well, you sure are a vision.” Grantaire glanced sideways at him, gauging his reaction.

He huffed, his cheeks a pretty tinge of pink. “You’re being rather presumptuous. I – I don’t know what kind of man you take me for, but –” He seemed at a loss for what else to say, and ended with another affronted huff.

 Grantaire looked away, wishing he hadn’t said anything. Of course Enjolras wasn’t like that. He had thought, though, with his odd, long hair, that maybe…

Suddenly his face broke into a grin. “Well, shit, look who the wind blew in!”

A nearby girl wheeled around, her eyes sparkling. “Grantaire! My favorite larry in the world!”

“Your carney’s in town, too?”

“All through Independence Day,” she responded. Then she nodded towards Enjolras. “This fella with it?”

Grantaire nodded. “Musichetta, meet Enjolras. Enjolras, the lovely Musichetta. Taught Ponine how to eat fire. _And_ she’s one hell of a dancer,” he said teasingly.

“You flatter me, Aire,” she said with a laugh. “What’re you taking on green help for?”

“I still got your Eagle-Top, if that’s what you’re after. I’m sure he’d love to see you and Joly.”

“Say, we all oughta get together,” she proposed. “The old bar? I can guarantee Courfeyrac’ll want to come.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Midnight, soon as we drop the awnings.” They exchanged a hearty farewell and parted ways.

“I swear,” Enjolras said at length, “that half the time I don’t even understand what you’re saying.”

Grantaire had almost forgotten his presence, and their exchange before the distraction of Musichetta. His good mood dropped considerably and he just shrugged. “Maybe we don’t want to be understood.” He pointed at a stand. “Cot. Come on.”

\- - - - -

“Wait, wait,” Courfeyrac cried, “tell Enjolras that one story, with the lady who – who –” He couldn’t get the rest out, collapsing into giggles (Grantaire reckoned he’d had about two drinks too many).

Combeferre seemed to get the idea anyway, and smiled, leaning forward on the table. “So, this was during my first year as an A&S man,” he started, “and on that particular night my boss was looking on, to see how I was doing. This lady takes my bait, and I end up offering her twenty-five bucks if I guess her age close enough, because she took a good bit of convincing to go for it. And I know that if I lose this, I’m getting at least an earful and maybe an end of contract. So I check out the mark, write down seventy-nine.” He paused, taking a sip of his drink, and went on. “And she tells me she’s fifty-nine.” Courfeyrac exploded into laughter next to him. “I hesitate – for just a second, mind you. My margin is two years, not twenty, and I gotta think fast. So I flip the paper over to show her, _upside down_ , with my finger covering the top end of the seven. ‘Sixty-one,’ I say. ‘Just two years off, and I’m real sorry but it looks like you won’t be going home this roll tonight’.” He sat back proudly.

The story was an old one that Grantaire had heard at least five times before, and that Courfeyrac had probably heard five hundred times, but it didn’t stop him from shrieking with laughter. Grantaire looked over at Enjolras, hoping he didn’t say something stupid like –

“Isn’t that cheating?”

Grantaire grimaced. Too late. The group fell quiet, all eyes on Combeferre for a response. He was calm, mulling the query over. At last he said, “Well, yes and no. In the technical sense, I did cheat that mark out of the dollar she paid me. But if I didn’t do what I did, she’d’ve cheated me out of a job, without being any the wiser. What choice was I to take? She was wearing a fur thing; she could afford the dollar. I can’t afford my job. Yes, carneys cheat people – because we have to. I mean, hey. The world’s cheating us.”

Enjolras appeared dumbstruck, and Grantaire fought the urge to clap. If anyone could knock the rich-boy senselessness out of Enjolras, of course it was Combeferre. “I… I hadn’t really… thought of it that way,” he said softly.

“Hey, now tell him about that fella with the beard!” Courfeyrac crowed, shattering the silence.

After that, Enjolras and Combeferre got on marvelously. Once Enjolras had accepted and downed a drink, he told Combeferre everything that had happened to land him in a carney. The others kept laughing and joking as the pair’s conversation at the end of the table grew more serious, and Grantaire overheard Enjolras confessing to Combeferre in a low tone that he’d been in _riots,_ for god’s sake, but he knew he’d never been as scared as he was now. Grantaire pulled his attention back to the rowdier group, sensing that he ought not listen in any longer.

When they parted in the wee hours of the morning, Bossuet was tugged away invitingly by Musichetta and Joly, and looked back to Grantaire for some form of permission.

“You’re back and ready to work at ten,” Grantaire told him. “No later, hear?”

“Thanks, Aire,” he said, beaming.

Grantaire smirked. “Have a grand old time, Eagle-Top.”

\- - - - -

The week in Boston passed quickly. The day after their night of revelry, Grantaire discovered they’d spent an inadvisable amount of their savings, and though his clan met with Musichetta’s at the bar every night, none was quite as festive as the first, as long as they had another day of working like dogs to look forward to. Gavroche had taken Dominic and Francois under his raggedy wing, and was training them as hawkers. After assessing that Enjolras didn’t have the right flair to be an agent Grantaire had placed him in the kitchen with Éponine – she could always use a hand. Grantaire was friendly with Enjolras, but not too friendly, for fear of causing another embarrassing mishap. Unfortunately, keeping that distance proved difficult, because he had discovered that even aside from the physical attraction, he was growing sweet on Enjolras at an alarming rate. After carnival hours Enjolras steadily bonded with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and soon enough Independence Day – the most profitable day of the year – was drawing to a close, and after the carnival was packed up Grantaire decided they should let themselves really celebrate again.

An hour past midnight was when they started, so they had really just missed the holiday, but they observed it all the same with plenty of drinks and raucous shouting. Grantaire felt wildly dizzy in the best possible way, whirling around the room in an impromptu polka with Èponine. Everyone was good and drunk – except Gavroche and the kids, who celebrated in their own way with discarded, used Roman candles out on the street. When dancing grew tiresome Grantaire stepped out for a breath and watched them squawk in delight at every halfhearted crackle. He looked up at the sky, wishing he could see more stars. Maybe after Boston they’d look for some high grass, he mused. A pair stumbled out of the bar and after a moment Grantaire recognized them as Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Courfeyrac said something in a mutter close to Enjolras’s ear, his voice giggly as it always was when he drank. Grantaire glanced at the kids briefly, and looked back in time to see Enjolras lean forward and meet Courfeyrac’s mouth in a kiss.

Grantaire could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage. He didn’t want to see, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. It was a long kiss, an intimate kiss; intimate the way Enjolras had led Grantaire believe he would never want to be with a man. A sick feeling twisted its way into his chest and blood rushed to his ears. He cleared his throat, and the two jerked apart, looking up.

“Oh, it’s just Aire,” Courfeyrac said with a laugh. “You’re not ‘bout to turn in a coupla sodomites, are ya?”

Grantaire shook his head silently, his gaze on Enjolras, who wouldn’t meet his eyes, fiddling with a pulled thread on his shirtsleeve. Grantaire turned to go back in the bar, leaving them outside. He sat down, ignoring Bahorel’s shouts to come over to the dartboard and save him, and ordered a drink. Outside, a firecracker went off with a bang, and the boys cheered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vocab:  
> With it – With the carnival. In bigger operations, not everyone knows everyone, and “with it” is something a carney can say to an agent trying to get their attention to signal that they aren’t a mark  
> Green help – Inexperienced, new workers. A carney is considered green help until they’ve been with it for a year or longer  
> Drop the awnings – To close up all the joints (games and attractions) once the carnival is over  
> A&S man – A&S stands for age and size. They’re agents who offer a lot of money in exchange for a little, if they can’t guess a mark’s age, weight, or sometimes birth month within two years, pounds, or months. They almost always use tricks like Combeferre’s  
> Roll – As in bankroll  
> High grass – An out of the way, rural area  
> Ciazarn translations:  
> 1 – “And keep your paws to yourself”  
> What a long, long chapter! It's hands down my favorite one bc drama and I promise another one next week, featuring Grantaire being a boss at silent treatment! And the market is a real location in Boston, called the Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and it looks totally sick.  
> Happy exr week, everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence was thick in the air, and Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s eyes on him.

Silence was thick in the air, and Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s eyes on him. He ignored him and dipped an apple into the vat of molten taffy.

“Why are you angry with me?” Enjolras eventually demanded.

“Teazellim eazi’m neazot teazalkinta heazim,” Grantaire told Éponine.

Éponine sighed and relayed the message. “He’s not talking to you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth and stabbed the wooden stick into his apple with a bit more force than necessary. “You’re infuriating!” he growled to Grantaire. “I just want to know _why_!”

Grantaire kept his gaze fixed on the taffy apples.

“Steazop beazein’a keazid,” Éponine said irritably. Grantaire’s stubborn silent treatment was starting to wear on everyone. “Heaze deazidn’t meazeanta heazurt yeazou.”

“Eazi’m neazot heazurt.”

She scoffed. “Leaziar.”

“I don’t appreciate being talked about,” Enjolras announced, glaring daggers at the both of them. “And I don’t appreciate _you_ ,” he said to Grantaire, “not even giving me a chance to make amends!”

Really, Grantaire would have loved to make amends with Enjolras. But he didn’t see how he could ever stop being angry with him. If he let go of the anger, all he would have left would be – yes, Éponine was right – hurt. He couldn’t believe that Enjolras had lied to him. Even admitting that he was of that persuasion but didn’t have any interest in Grantaire would have been preferable to how it played out. And even then – well, a man was entitled to little bit of heartache. But he’d never be able to actually say something like that. He’d never be able to tell Enjolras how betrayed he felt, how hurt, how humiliated; because admitting it would just lead to more bitter humiliation. Thus, the anger. “Keazeyta theaze meazidway.”

“Theazat’s meazean, Aire,” Éponine chided.

“Deazoit.”

Éponine sighed again. “Enjolras, we need the key to the midway. Will you go get it from Bahorel?”

Enjolras huffed and walked out, muttering something like, “Won’t even ask me himself.”

Éponine waited until he was a few yards off before saying, “You really are acting like a kid. I don’t know what’s up between you two, but work it out, for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t focus well when he’s sulky.”

Grantaire never seemed to find the right time to work it out, though; and soon, it seemed he was too late. Enjolras gave up on him completely, cool and polite whenever their paths crossed, and it certainly didn’t help that Enjolras suddenly seemed to be best pals with Feuilly. Warm, kind, approachable Feuilly, who had never done a thing to Grantaire but whom he found himself resenting every time Enjolras touched his shoulder or laughed at something he said between the two of them. Enjolras had even stopped working in the kitchen, and was helping Feuilly instead. Grantaire couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand but couldn’t help thinking that Feuilly was better than him in so many ways, that he was almost definitely handsomer, that in the six years he’d been with it he’d never taken a woman that Grantaire knew of. Jealousy smoldered inside him.

But Feuilly was such a good man, that he just couldn’t lash out. He came close a few times, but even if he had it wouldn’t have been satisfying. He knew Feuilly, and if Grantaire shouted at him, he would just frown reproachfully, shake his head a little, and give Grantaire the grace of pretending he hadn’t said anything. So he kept his brooding, bitter thoughts to himself. Two months passed, and Grantaire didn’t talk to Enjolras at all, communicating with the others in ciazarn when he was around. Then, one night in Westchester, the door to the wagon creaked open, and Enjolras walked in.

That was normal enough in and of itself. As always, Grantaire ignored him, and Enjolras got ready for bed silently. Then he paused before lowering the gas lamp, and said, very clearly, “Eazi deazidin’t kneazow yeazouwere seazerious.” Grantaire stayed silent, though he had to admit he’d been taken aback. “Wheazen yeazou seazaid… Eazi deazidn’t reazealize. Eazi’m seazorryfor leazying. Eazi tehazought…”

“You’re not real suited for ciazarn,” Grantaire interrupted quietly. It was the first thing he’d said to Enjolras since Independence Day. “You use too many fancy words. Words are too important to you to stand an easier one, if it might be wrong.”

“I learned it for you,” he answered simply.

“So.” Grantaire held up his hand expectantly. “What are you on about?”

Enjolras seemed to prepare himself. “I only lied because, well… You _must_ understand how difficult it is to trust someone with that fact. I thought for sure you’d meant to harass me, if I’d admitted it. And so… I lied.”

“That’s the damn silliest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Grantaire said bluntly. He wanted to laugh, to cry, he didn’t know what. He felt shaky. He groped around for his flask, still not daring to meet Enjolras’s eyes. He knew he’d melt in the fire of them. “When –” he paused for a much needed drink, “when has anyone ever told you how pretty you are as part of a nasty joke?”

“Never, but –”

“Then why in hell would I?” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended.

“I don’t know, and you’re right, it was silly of me, but I’ve lost good friends over this matter, and you’re very important to me, and I didn’t want that to happen,” he said in a rush. Grantaire finally risked a glance at him. His face was flushed.

“Can’t have been that good,” Grantaire stated, feeling his anger subsiding, “if you lost ‘em over something small as your persuasion.”

“I… suppose not.” His gaze burnt into Grantaire’s soul.

“So,” he braced himself to ask, “just how, uh… _important_ am I to you?” He was afraid of what the answer might be, but he had to know.

“ _So_ important,” Enjolras said fervently. “I’ve missed you terribly. You’re interesting, and you may not act it but you’re intelligent. More than that, you care so much about everyone here. Even me. You helped me when no one else would. I’ll never stop being grateful for that or admiring your altruism.” He looked as certain and impassioned as he had when Grantaire first saw him. “And if it’s alright with you, I would like to kiss you.”

Bewildered alarm bells sounded in Grantaire’s head. One half of his brain insisted that there was no reason beautiful, wonderful Enjolras should want to kiss his ugly mug. The other half said to shut up and just accept his incredible luck. “Okay,” he answered eventually.

“Okay?” Enjolras repeated. “What does that mean, okay?” he demanded.

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know! Okay, as in you understand my words, or okay, as in yes?”

Why were they discussing semantics when they could be kissing? “For Christ’s sakes, it means yes!”

“Fine!” Enjolras tisked and huffed, stomped across the floor, and bestowed on Grantaire the sweetest, gentlest kiss he’d ever received. He would have laughed at his dramatics if he hadn’t been so caught up in heartily kissing him back.

Enjolras was practically on top of him by the time Bossuet ambled in. They didn’t notice him until he made a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Within seconds Enjolras leapt back and straightened up, his face pinker than Grantaire had ever seen it.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Bossuet said with a grin. “I assume you’re on speaking terms again?”

“Always the comedian, huh, Eagle-Top? And stop looking so guilty, Angel-ras, it’s not a crime.”

“Yes it is,” Bossuet contradicted cheekily.

Grantaire flipped him off, laughing all the same. He’d be willing to commit sodomy in all forty-five states if it was with Enjolras at his side.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vocab:  
> Key to the midway – A completely fictional item that a carney sends unwitting green help to find as a rather mean joke  
> Ciazarn translations:  
> 1 – “Tell him I ain’t talking to him”  
> 2 – “Stop being a kid. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
> “I’m not hurt”  
> “Liar”  
> “Key to the midway”  
> “That’s mean, Aire”  
> “Do it”  
> 3 – “I didn’t know you were serious. When you said… I didn’t realize. I’m sorry for lying. I thought…”  
> And now that that’s done… Wooooooooo! The dumb kiddos figured it out! Oh, and yeah, there were only forty-five states back then, and a legal definition of sodomy including buttsex was definitely a thing. There’s definitely at least one more chapter in store, to wrap up. Sooooo… smut, anyone? And by smut I mean tender, feelsy smut with lots of disgustingly sweet affection and care and beautiful, loving consent (do I ever write anything else?) Anyway, that’s what’s in store next week!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aire, where are you taking me?”
> 
> “Shush, Angel, and be patient.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be midnight but that doesn't make it not Wednesday. Here's some smut for y'all, about ten hours early.

“Aire, where are you taking me?”

“Shush, Angel, and be patient.”

“I just want to know,” Enjolras sounded annoyed, but he was smiling, “where I’m being dragged to when I ought to be covering the rides.”

“There’s time for that later,” Grantaire insisted, guiding him across the midway. They’d just dropped the awnings on the last carnival of the year, back in Boston for Labor Day. Grantaire was full of nerves. However many lovers he’d taken over the years, he’d never dared to try this. But it was Enjolras this time, and he couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do more. The only variable was what Enjolras would think. “Okay, we’re here.” He stopped Enjolras and pulled his hand out from in front of his eyes.

Enjolras stared, and then nodded. “Yes, Grantaire, it’s the Ferris wheel,” he said, like he was speaking to a simp.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Stop giving me cheek for one minute, will you? I’m trying to be serious.”

“When have you ever been serious?”

“Watch it, you,” Grantaire said warningly, fighting a twitch of a smile. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Okay. Enjolras. You know I’m mad about you. I’d even reckon I love you.” He paused to see the weight of his words.

Enjolras looked pleased, but a bit bemused. “And I love you. Now, why’d you have to tell me next to the wheel?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to, uh… take part in something of a tradition.”

“And that would be?”

“A carney marriage. It ain’t a real marriage,” he hastened to add, “just a sort of, uh, promise. I promise that you’ll be my only, and you promise that I’ll be yours. If you want to, that is.” He watched him anxiously, but Enjolras’s face was breaking into a grin.

“Of course I want to, fool.”

Grantaire grinned back. “Swell. So, this is where the heister comes in. To seal the deal, we ride around once, just you and me.”

“Who’s going to work the wheel if both of us are on it?”

Grantaire faltered, then swore. “Guess I forgot something. Uh… you just stand here looking pretty, don’t move an inch.” He ran off to find someone, and encountered Gavroche first. “Vroche, do me a favor and get Feuilly or Bahorel or someone who can work the heister.”

Because it was Gavroche he was talking to, it wasn’t so simple. “What for?”

“For working the heister, punk.” Grantaire said shortly, irritated.

“But _what for_?” he demanded. “We’re all done.”

“If you gotta know, me and Enjolras are having a carney marriage. Now get someone, before I clap you!”

As it turned out, Gavroche decided to get everyone, and they all clustered at the base of the Ferris wheel to watch Grantaire and Enjolras ride, applauding when they disembarked. Grantaire couldn’t stop grinning, even with Bossuet and Bahorel shattering the sweetness of the occasion by breaking into the chorus of a rather lewd song. Nothing could ruin for him the fact that without even stopping to think, Enjolras had said ‘I love you’ back.

\- - - - -

The small, gasping noises Enjolras was making as they kissed were driving Grantaire insane. He pressed himself a fraction of an inch closer, and fumbled over Enjolras’s shoulder for the hook latch on the wagon door. It clinked shut, and Enjolras pulled back a hairsbreadth to ask, “What – What about Bossuet?”

“He’ll find a bed.” Enjolras somehow didn’t find a chance to protest as Grantaire resumed his exploration of his mouth. He gasped again, louder. Grantaire was hyperaware of the arousal hanging thick in the air. “Have you ever –” he breathed, close to Enjolras’s ear.

“Never,” was the whispered reply.

“Do you want to?”

“ _Yes_.”

Grantaire pulled back more seriously. “Sure? If you’ve never before…”

“I’m certain, Aire.”

“It won’t be easy,” he warned. “Might not even be much fun.”

“I don’t care whether I have fun,” Enjolras insisted, his eyes dark, “as long as I’m with you,” and Grantaire all but melted.

“If you’re sure,” he checked again, catching Enjolras’s hand.

“Grantaire, I am.” And with that assertion, he fell back on Grantaire’s mouth with renewed ferocity. Grantaire stumbled backwards in the direction of the cot, finding it and pulling Enjolras down on top of him. Enjolras started to wrestle out of his shirtsleeves and Grantaire followed suit, shrugging off his suspenders. Before long they were pressed skin to skin and breathless. Grantaire groped through the crate next to the cot without pulling away, his fingers at last closing around a small jar.

“What have you got there?” Enjolras asked through a moan.

“Vaseline.” He hesitated. “Look, I meant it when I said this won’t be so easy. You’re real, real sure?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire kissed him again, long and gentle. “On your belly, then.” Enjolras complied, and Grantaire had to stop for a moment just to admire how beautiful he was, stretched out with his blond locks spilling onto his shoulders, his pale skin flushed and warm, looking up at Grantaire with molten desire in his eyes. Grantaire slicked up his fingers with Vaseline, and paused again. “You tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” he said. “You say ‘ow’ and I’ll try to make it better. Don’t be daft and keep something to yourself, ‘cause I want this to be right. You hear?”

“I hear.”

Grantaire was true to his word, proceeding slowly and carefully, his ears closely attuned to every hitched breath from Enjolras, ready for so much as a trace of hesitance. Only once did he stop Grantaire, with a terse “Wait,” before exhaling shakily and allowing him to continue.

Eventually Enjolras was as ready and relaxed as he could possibly get. Grantaire rearranged himself so that he was kneeling over Enjolras, his face just above Enjolras’s ear. “You alright?”

“I’m alright,” he confirmed.

“Good.” Grantaire pressed a kiss to his neck. “This bit could be more fun, but a mite harder. You’re real, real sure?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire kissed him one more time and reached again for the Vaseline, preparing himself. “Tell me anything you need,” he reminded him.

“I – _oh_ – I will.”

Enjolras was much more vocal from that point on, letting Grantaire know exactly how he felt with sound and speech alike. Grantaire kept it slow, and Enjolras certainly seemed to like it that way. By the time they were nearing an end he was muttering an endless stream of fragmented phrases peppered with gasps and _“Grantaire”_ s and _“I love you”_ s, his voice heightening until he stopped talking entirely, letting out a toneless cry in the place of words. Grantaire was right behind him with a shuddering moan.

Grantaire collapsed on the cot beside Enjolras, breathing heavily. “God damn.”

“I have to agree,” Enjolras said, a hand on his heaving chest. “That was… something else,” he settled on.

Grantaire huffed out a laugh and fished around for his trousers, pulling a match and a cigarette out of the pocket. He ignited the match on the nearest wall panel, and Enjolras shook his head.

“You’re going to set this wagon on fire one day if you keep striking matches against the walls.”

“And I’ll be sure to give you a chance to say you told me so,” Grantaire returned with a smirk once he’d taken a drag from his cigarette.

Enjolras tutted, but he was smiling. He sighed and said, “Last carnival of the year.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed.

“What… will we do? Over the winter, I mean.”

“We’ll head south soon, to escape the chill. If our earnings get stretched too thin we’ll find season work. Once we skipped town to town, running a badger game. Mostly we just camp out ‘til spring again.”

Enjolras hummed thoughtfully. He seemed content to lie sprawled out against Grantaire in silence, until he murmured, “Do you know, even with everything that’s happened, I’m glad I’m where I am right now. I wouldn’t trade this for anything I had before.”

“No?”

“No.”

Grantaire swelled with happiness. “Well, good. I’m awful glad you’re right here, too.” And once he thought about it, Grantaire found that he was happy for his own fate. For the first time since it’d happened, he felt glad that he’d been fooled into buying a failing carnival. And for the first time in even longer, he felt ready to face whatever the future held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vocab:  
> Simp – short for simpleton, which should be pretty self-explanatory  
> Heister – comparable with ‘hoister’, because the Ferris wheel hoists people up  
> Badger game – okay, now, THIS is a fun piece of carnival happenings. It’s a trick in which an agent convinces some guy to pay for a key which opens a door, behind which he’s led to believe is a girl who will have sex with him. She’s known as the key girl, and she isn’t there. Instead, the mark finds her ‘boyfriend’, who acts furious and threatens more money out of him. I feel like Bahorel would be excellent at the badger game  
> Aaaaaaand that’s a wrap! I hope you all enjoyed this! I certainly enjoyed writing it, and getting all the sweet comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! This fic, particularly this first chapter, is going to be very note-heavy because there’s a lot of context needed. First off, vocab!  
> Carney – A carnival, or someone who works in a carnival  
> Townie – Someone from the town, meaning not from the carnival  
> Lot lice – The lot is where the carnival is located. Lot lice are townies who show up at the carnival early, leave late, and don’t spend a cent but gawk at everything.  
> Mark – Someone who money is being made off of using a game or attraction.  
> Midway – The entire area containing the carnival, while the carnival is set up. The difference of a lot is that it’s called that before the carnival is set up, too.  
> There will likely be a vocab list in every single end note.  
> Another thing I should explain before giving a brief background is the chalk thing. Agents (people working games or attractions) do that to signal to other agents that a mark is very gullible (an easy mark is called an emby).  
> And nowwwwww background! The year is 1905. It’s in the US but everyone’s names are French, and we all pretends it’s normal, okay? Okay. Let the poor writer have her plothole. More detail may be given later in the fic, but the basic idea is that Grantaire made bad life decisions and now he owns a carnival. I’ve done a ton of carnival research and most of them were pretty unsavory – they had strip shows and prostitution and the owner would swindle carneys and the carneys would swindle each other and everyone would swindle marks. Those unsavory carnivals were also very successful. This carnival does not have strippers because it currently consists of exactly seven carnies (that number will go up soon), and they’re all really close and would never swindle each other (as Grantaire put it, they’re family). Thus, it is very unsuccessful and they are monstrously poor.  
> Okay, you’re probably all sick of random carnival facts, so I’ll end by saying that chapters will be posted weekly, on Wednesdays!


End file.
